


Trust Issues

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Angst, Doubt, Gen, Mild Language, Missing Scene, POV First Person, Pre-Slash, Self Confidence Issues, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 10:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes woven around the movie, Ghost Protocol.  (So, who, really, is William Brandt?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust Issues

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will. Self-beta'd.
> 
> ~ Seriously, this is just a series of missing scenes from the movie. The question as to who Will really was (or... could be) popped in to my head, and this was the answer I came up with. Oh... And I've amended (or... extended) the ending as well. The ultimate outcome is still essentially the same, but I've just... added to it... to better suit my purposes.
> 
> ~ My fingers are crossed that it reads okay and makes sense! The ability to concentrate on one thing at a time not really being my friend at the moment, I've dithered over it for weeks now and know that I've just got to bite the bullet and hit 'post' before I once again push it aside.
> 
> ~ So... Please. Enjoy!

==========  
Trust Issues  
by TalithaX  
==========

Ghost Protocol.

Being nothing if not a firm believer in always having all my bases covered, I've trained for it and understand both why such a protocol has to exist and all that making the call to initiate it entails, yet, as I sit here staring blankly at the IMF logo on the screen of my laptop, I...

… Can hardly believe that it's real.

That it's...

… Not just a training drill or steps to memorise in a 'how-to' manual and, as in right now, it's actually happening.

Make that...

… It's happened.

IMF doesn't exist.

The familiar logo on my computer wallpaper is for an agency that no longer exists and that, if I want to indulge in a moment of self-absorbed melodrama here, in turn, I...

… No longer exist.

Again.

Granted, I'm neither alone nor – a field agent – engaged in an active mission, but, regardless of this, the similarities are still very much there.

No records. No backup. 

In the dark.

And to say I feel as though I'm already running dangerously close to empty would be something of a massive understatement.

It's not that I'm afraid, feel out of my depth or don't know what it is I'm supposed to be doing, as... I'm not, I don't, and I do. If anything it could probably be said that, given my background and what used to be my very specific skill set, I'm all but designed for moments like this. Calm, committed, and always in control.

It...

It's a world I remember only all too well.

What it also is though is a world I'd hoped to never find myself in again.

I...

I'm just not the same man that I was when all of this was second nature to me.

I'll do all – and more, if that's what it takes to ensure the Secretary's safe return to D.C. – that's asked of me, and I'll do it to the very best of what is now my limited ability, and, really, I just have to hope and pray that it's enough.

I'm fit, and it's not as though my problem has ever been stupidity or a lack of dedication, and...

Fuck.

This just isn't a situation I ever wanted to be placed in again.

Effectively out in the field. Responsible. On my own and having to provide a protection detail for the Secretary.

I just...

This isn't me. Not anymore. I might look perfect for the role on paper, and once upon a time I'd even have believed it myself, but I'm not.

I'm just not.

Not that it was supposed to be like this. Of course it wasn't. Although he never came out and said it in so many words, I think the Secretary meant it as some sort of odd little treat for me. A token reward, perhaps, for having – against the odds – kept my shit together for six straight months. Just a short, fly in, fly out, no expense spared trip to Moscow. It not being as though I'd never been to Russia before, I hadn't even particularly wanted to go. I'd even, albeit not aloud, questioned what possible use I could be in what was essentially little more than an exercise in inter-agency public relations. I wasn't needed, I neither wanted to go nor saw any point in it, but... out of both respect for the Secretary and the fact that I owe him – everything – a lot for not having simply given up on me, I nevertheless dutifully grabbed my overnight bag and, just he'd been expecting me to, met him on the tarmac in front of the jet.

Again though, it was all meant to be so easy. Something, even, of a non event. Smile, shake hands, play nice and pose for photographs during the Order of Friendship ceremony, then smile, shake hands, play nice – while simultaneously talking nothing but bullshit in relation to there being a 'frank and open exchange of information between our two countries' – and pose for photographs during the meeting with representatives from the KGB that was scheduled for the following day.

The meeting that should have taken place some eight hours ago and which, thanks to whatever the hell the explosion was at the Kremlin, never happened.

We came – in peace – to accept an Order of Friendship, and now we're having to leave under the cover of the witching hour and with our lives as we knew it in tatters.

Having had my own task of saving as much intel as I possibly could from the servers before they were taken down, I'm not as up to do date on current chatter relating to Russian and American relations as I'd like to be, but I'm thinking, although I really hope that I'm mistaken, that they can't be good.

That they can't be good at all.

The Secretary, after both making his announcement that the President had officially shut all of IMF down by enacting Ghost Protocol and pausing just long enough to confirm I had enough wits about me to immediately turn my attention to my ever present laptop, has been in his room for close to six hours now, and...

I don't like it.

I don't like it at all.

Although the low murmur of his voice through the wall has been little more than background noise, I know he's spent by far the majority of the time on the phone and, knowledge being as much about self-preservation as it is power, I'd sell my few remaining family members to know everything that he does. I'm not saying I'd like it very much, or even that I'd be able to do anything with it, but... The big picture. I'm a firm believer in knowing as much about the given situation as possible.

Lives, to my absolute dismay, could depend on it.

Both logic and history scream at me that we're now persona non grata here in Moscow and that, although I'm still on the fence as to whether the local authorities would want to risk an international incident by trying to take us in by force, we have to get back to the States while we still can. I know, because confirmation of this popped up in my email an hour or so ago, that the jet has been refuelled and is scheduled to take off in just over three hours from now and, as far as I'm concerned anyway, the sooner we're on it and up in the air the better.

Let's face it. Things, however you choose to look at them, suck enough as it is without adding falling prey to a pack of pissed off, and no doubt ill informed Russians into the mix as well. The Kremlin, currently for reasons completely unknown, has come under attack, IMF as a whole has been disavowed, and here we – the Secretary, IMF's second in command, and his trusty... basket-case of an analyst – are smack back in the middle of fucking Moscow.

It's like, I don't know, some sort of hideously bad joke or something. I mean, learning that Ghost Protocol had been initiated from the comfort of my own living room would still rank pretty highly in the 'things I don't want to hear' stakes, but...

Here?

In the thick of things?

Just...

… Why me?

I'm not...

I'm not... Him... anymore and this – stress and risk and high stakes – is no longer my forte, and I know, I just know, that I'm not going to be able to breathe easy again until I'm stepping, with the Secretary by my side, off the jet on home soil.

Until then though I just have to do whatever I can to both keep it together and do my part.

Whatever it takes.

I can do this.

I...

… Have to be able to do this.

The sound of a door opening saving me from just waving the white flag of defeat and hyperventilating, I swivel around in my seat and watch the Secretary as he steps quietly in to the room. With his crumpled suit, loosened tie and exhausted expression, he looks close to how I feel and, not surprisingly, this just adds to my unease. If the Secretary, one of the most respected and decorated agents to have ever worked his way up through the ranks at IMF, is already feeling the strain, then, seriously, what hope have I got of being able to successfully keep it together?

“They're all down?” he queries, referring to the IMF backup servers and the way they go down not as, you might expect them to, a block but one after another, as he walks over to stand next to where I'm sitting at the suite's dining table.

“Sir.” Nodding, I gesture at the laptop's screen. “Tokyo was the last to go, and it went down thirty minutes ago. I both prioritised and saved what I could, but...”

“We just didn't have access to the storage capacity needed to catch it all,” the Secretary finishes with a resigned looking shrug as he places his hand down on my shoulder and gives it a good squeeze. “Just... Don't worry about it. I'm sure you got what you could and... at this point anything would have to be better than nothing. Now...” Pulling his hand away from my shoulder, he glances at his watch and nods to himself. “As there's been a slight change of plans,” he continues, “we need to be on our way.”

“Sir?” Closing down my laptop, I stand up and, after automatically rolling down my sleeves, both pull on my suit jacket and straighten my tie. “According to the email I received we don't need to leave for the airport for another couple of...”

“There's been a slight change of plans,” he repeats, cutting me off as he picks my computer up from off the table and begins to walk towards the door. “We have a package to pick up on the way.”

“A package? But... Who? I...” Trailing off as I realise that if he wanted me to know just who it is we're going to pick up en route to the airport he'd have come out and said it already, I grab my bag from up off the floor and take a step towards him. “An extraction, huh? Seeing as all the official comms went down the second the President hit the Ghost Protocol button, whoever it is was sure lucky with their timing.”

“Given where we're currently at, I'm hoping his... luck... ultimately proves to work in everyone's favour,” the Secretary states solemnly as, opening the door, he hesitates over walking through it and, locking his tired gaze on mine, gives me a sad smile. “William, while I'm not in the position to give you any of the answers to all the questions I just know have to be running through your head at the moment, I nonetheless want to ask a favour of you.”

“Sir?” Reaching the door, I take my laptop back from him and – knowing in my heart that I'm not going to like just whatever it is he's wanting to ask of me – hold it against my chest like some sort of truly pathetic shield. “If I... Uh... That is, of course. I would hope that it would go without saying that I will always endeavour to assist you in anyway that I can.”

“I know you would,” he replies, once again closing his hand around my shoulder, “and it's for this very reason that I've never given up on you. Now... It's also for this reason that I want you to take the faith I've always had in you and... apply it to yourself. That's what I'm asking of you, William.” Sighing, he tightens his hold my shoulder and looks me directly in the eye. “While I'm no more clear on what's to come than you are, I want you to remember my trust in you and... for you to trust in yourself. Circumstances may have conspired against you in the past, but I want you to both know, and never forget, that I believe in you and that you're one of only two men I'd be comfortable with placing the fate of IMF in.”

“Sir?” Why do I get the feeling here that I'm really, really not going to like whatever it is that's coming? “I...”

“Believe in yourself, William. Believe in yourself and never give up. That's all that I ask.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ethan Hunt.

The Secretary's... 'package', the agent who was lucky enough to make the call before all communication went down, just... had... to be Ethan Hunt, didn't it.

Just...

Of course it did.

The one – living – agent that I'd hoped to never lay eyes on again.

Actually, no.

Laying eyes on him, from a safe distance across the other side of the room, I could have, so long as there was an exit in sight and I knew that I didn't have to speak to him, handled. 

This, however...

Fuck.

This is like some sort of cruel and unusual punishment.

The Secretary's dead. IMF is shut down. The world is under threat of a nuclear strike. I've, somehow, found myself involved in an active mission to stave off said nuclear strike with...

… An ex tech department guy fresh from passing his field exam and out in the field for the first time, a woman who, although she may well be an incredible agent with faultless skills, managed to inject enough contempt in the word analyst to make me think she – and this is without even getting to know me first – holds me in the same regard as she does paedophiles, terrorists, and those people who drive well below the speed limit in the fast lane, and, just for the cherry on top...

Ethan Hunt.

Yet again it's like some sort of an inappropriate joke.

A rookie, a woman who may or may not have an attitude problem, a brilliant agent, and a basket-case walk into a super-secret train carriage maintained by a now defunct spy agent and are handed the task of saving the world...

Just...

Kill me now.

Out of all of the agents listed as on active duty when the President pulled the plug on IMF, just why did the Secretary's 'package' have to be Ethan Hunt? I'm not saying that he's not a great agent, as he is. Possibly even the 'best of the best', and, okay, fine, if there was anyone capable of close to single handedly stopping Cobalt and his whacked out idea of kicking off world peace by a nuclear strike then it would have to be Ethan. Seen it all, dedicated, determined, a 'never surrender' attitude that makes him the agent all the new recruits want to be like, quick witted, fearless, and... brilliant. Completely and utterly brilliant.

Like everyone who has ever read of his exploits, I admire him.

Of course I do.

I'd even go so far as to admit that I wish I was more like him. Hell, I'd give just about anything to have his confidence alone. To not doubt myself at every turn and actually feel comfortable in my – own skin – standing, it... Well, it would just be amazing. It's not going to happen any time soon, and I can hardly recall what it even felt like, but I'm still fairly confident that it would have to be nothing short of amazing.

I don't know Ethan Hunt personally and have absolutely no reason to dislike him. If anything, I now owe my life to him. Instead of leaving me to fend for myself after our car crashed in to the river, he made a very deliberate point of keeping me with him and I honestly don't think I would have made it without him. Lighting a flare and putting it on the driver's body in order to give the shooters something to aim at? While I'm still not entirely sure why exactly it is that it actually worked, what I do know for a fact is that I never would have thought of it myself.

What I also know is that I owe far more than just my life to Ethan.

… And that there's no way I can ever give back to him that which I blame myself for him losing.

His wife.

If I'd trusted my instinct...

If I'd spoken up...

If I'd stayed with her instead of following Ethan on his run...

I...

Oh God.

It just keeps running through my head. Over and over again, like it's stuck in a continuous loop that I'm too hesitant – or perhaps that should be... gutless – to break free from.

Do I tell him?

… How do I tell him?

That I'm responsible.

I could have warned him.

I... should... have warned him.

But I didn't.

And she died.

His wife, she...

… Died.

Because of me.

Because just like now, I was too gutless, too... wary of speaking up.

Although I wasn't personally involved in her death, I still feel responsible for it and, while I'll admit it's cowardly of me, I'd just hoped to never find myself in a situation where I'd have to face up to Ethan. Not having it in me to bring her back, just...

What do I say to him?

'I'm sorry for your loss', especially as I could have prevented it, doesn't come close to cutting it, and then there's the small fact of timing. I should have, if only I wasn't such a fucking coward, that is, manned up and made a point of searching him out to apologise to as soon as was conceivably possible. It wouldn't have changed anything then, and I'd still be hating myself now, but at least it would have been out in the open.

Ethan would have known the role I played in the murder of his wife and...

… Armed with already knowing what sort of person I was, could have just left me to drown in the river.

He could have left me to die and, while I'm not saying I harbour a death wish or anything like that, things, they just wouldn't be as bad as they are now. He could have even absolved himself of his instinctive duty towards me and just left me, gasping, wheezing and shell shocked, on the riverbank.

But no...

He not only saved me, but he then just had to go and keep me with him as well.

And here I am.

In a train carriage that may well prove to be the very last piece of IMF property I ever step foot in, lying flat on my back in a bunk bed with stainless steel safety rails that reminds me just a bit too much of a hospital bed, and heading towards Saint Petersburg in order to catch a flight to Dubai as... part of a thrown together team that I really don't want to be a part of.

I...

I just feel sick.

Be it courtesy of swallowing too much river water, the very fact of Ethan's proximity as he sits staring at a photograph of the man we now know to be Cobalt in one of the chairs opposite the bunk I'm lying in, or just sheer and utter panic at the mess I've found myself in, I feel both nauseous and as though my head is in danger of exploding. 

I shouldn't be here.

I should have... found the courage... to tell Ethan that the mission would proceed better without me and that, if he had any sense, he wouldn't want me anywhere near him, that I'm...

… Bad news.

I'm as fully trained as Ethan is, and I'm IMF to the core, but I can't do it.

This.

I can't do this.

Ignoring my... history... with Ethan and the heavy burden of truth weighing down on my shoulders, I can't just fall into a team and be expected to – be of any use – play my part. I'm an analyst now. I sit on my ass studying intel and it's up to others how they use it. While it's not exactly how I saw my career progressing, it's what it is and, having adapted to it, I'm grateful for it. The Secretary, after having given me one chance that I spectacularly blew, didn't have to give me another one and, now that he's dead and I'll never have the opportunity to say it to him, I just hope that he was aware of how much his – misguided though it may be – faith in me meant. If he hadn't stepped in and handed me the offer of becoming an analyst that he had no intention of letting me refuse, I honestly don't know what would have become of me. Training others being out of the question as that would have gone hand in hand with a level of responsibility that I wouldn't have been able to cope with, I probably would have had to have left IMF.

Which, given my current predicament, may not have been the worst thing to happen after all.

What if...

I fuck something up and it's solely because of me that Cobalt's able to succeed and launch his nuclear strike? The truth comes out at an inopportune moment and, so horrified by having both saved me and welcomed me into his team, Ethan loses the plot and can't focus on the mission? Something I do, or, for that matter, don't do, causes one of the others to come to harm? I may not know Benji – and the less said about the sound of his snoring coming from the other bunk the better – or Jane, but the last thing I'd ever want is for them to fall foul of my ineptitude. Ethan, too. Already having the blood of his wife on my hands, the mere thought of inadvertently adding his to my long line of failures is enough to make me just want to sit, rocking back and forth, in a corner somewhere.

It...

For the want of a better way of putting it, it was all... tolerable... while my adrenaline was still pumping. From the Secretary's death, to the claustrophobic, freezing stint in the river, and all the way to both the hurried sprint through the rail yard and the discussion of just what it is we've found ourselves up against that followed, things were... more or less... okay. I had something to both focus on and keep myself occupied with. I was even able to play a minor part by sharing what I knew about Cobalt.

Now though, after having dutifully followed Ethan's suggestion to 'try and get some sleep', everything's just come to a stop and I'm caught fast by my going nowhere thoughts. 

No plan. No backup. No choice.

I've already failed Ethan once.

I'm... a failure who's just going to let everyone down.

I shouldn't be here.

I... can't... be here.

I can't do this.

I, for his sake even more than mine, have to speak up and explain to Ethan just why it is he doesn't want me on the team.

Now.

I'm going to...

… Be sick.

Clamping my hand over my mouth, I clamber hurriedly out of the bunk and, on legs that don't even feel as though they're fully connected to my body, stagger towards the small toilet at the other end of the carriage. Crashing through the door, I drop to my knees in front of the toilet bowl and throw up until I swear to God there'd have to be nothing left in my stomach. When I've finally finished, I stand up, flush, and go over to the tiny basin to splash water on my face. Although the cold water revives me a little, it doesn't make me feel any better and the only reason I force myself to walk out of the toilet is that I know I can't just stay in there forever. It being cool, dark, and private, I'd quite like to, and if the look of disgust on Jane's face is anything to go by, I think she'd quite like me to stay in there as well, but, as it's the only toilet in the carriage and we're still eight or so hours away from Saint Petersburg, I just can't and that's all there is to it. 

Ignoring Ethan's openly curious look as I pass him, I sink down in one of the chairs under the bunk I'd been lying in and just close my eyes. I now not only feel sick but also dithery as well and just don't know what it is I'm going to do with myself.

“Here.”

The – unwanted – sound of Ethan's voice coming from directly in front of me causing my eyes to fly open, I blink up at him and notice, somewhat to my surprise, that he's holding a bottle of water out towards me. “Uh... Thanks,” I murmur, taking the bottle from him as, with a shrug, he pulls a small bottle of pills out of his pocket and settles himself in the seat next to mine. He then opens the bottle, tips two of the pills in to the palm of his hand and places them on my thigh.

“Here. You might want to take these.”

“Cyanide?” I mutter, picking up the pills and gazing down at them in preference to accidentally making eye contact with Ethan.

“Anti-emetics,” Ethan replies as he leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Hopefully they'll help settle your stomach.”

“Uh... Okay.” Seeing no reason not to believe him, I unscrew the lid from the bottle and quickly swallow the pills with a mouthful of water. “Thanks. That's... uh... very kind of you.”

“You're no use to anyone if you're throwing up all the time,” he responds matter-of-factly, “and, in case it's escaped your attention, I think it's safe to say we currently need all the help that we can get.”

“Uh... On that...”

“Chief analyst, huh?” Ethan mutters, both talking all over the top of me and effectively snuffing out what may well have been my golden opportunity to seize the moment and come clean.

“Well, yes. That's my current...”

“A desk jockey...”

“That...” Although I don't like what could easily be a condescending tone in Ethan's voice, I don't look over at him and feign fascination with the bottle of water in my hand. “I suppose that's one way of looking at it.”

“The way you were able to keep up with me in the rail yard,” he adds almost conversationally, “you seem pretty fit for someone who just sits on his ass all day.”

“I...” Despite knowing that, not having the luxury of knowing anywhere near as much about me as I do about him, he's only wanting to convince himself that he's made the right call in wanting me on the team, I don't much care for his tone and, jerking my head up, scowl at him. “I like to keep fit,” I reply with a dismissive shrug. “Is that a crime?”

“No, it's not a crime,” Ethan responds, sitting up a little straighter so that he can better turn to both face me and look me in the eye. “Nor, however, is speaking up when you're put on the spot. You're only an analyst, Brandt, and if you don't think you're up for what's coming then... Speak now or forever hold your peace. I know the rug's been pulled out from under your feet and that you've found yourself in a world you've only ever read about, so... If you don't think you can do this I want you to just say so. I won't hold it against you.”

“I...”

Fuck.

This is what I've been wanting, a get out of jail free card that will solve all of my current problems and see me on my not-so-merry way.

Yet...

Damn it!

We're all that remains of IMF and stopping Cobalt isn't just important, it's imperative. If I don't at least try to do what I can to help, what use am I to anyone? My fears haven't changed, and I know I'll continue to worry myself sick until, one way or another, it's over, but, as much as I may not want to, this is something I have to do. I can't make up for playing a part in the loss of Ethan's wife, but what I can do is try to do my best to help him now. It won't change anything, and he'll still hate me whenever the truth finally comes out, but...

Sitting up straight, I ignore the flutter of panic in my chest and, although it's just about the last thing I feel like doing, force myself to look Ethan in the eye. “I'm as IMF as you are,” I state flatly, “and, because of this, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to stop Cobalt. I... I'm not saying I'll be of any great use, but... I'm yours if you want me.”

A brilliant smile lighting up Ethan's face, he claps me on the shoulder and relaxes back in his seat. “That's what I was hoping you'd say. Just... Stick with me, Brandt. Who knows. We might even make a field agent out of you!”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Agent Brandt.

I should, I suppose, be relieved.

Only...

… I'm not.

They think they know who I am, that... by knowing my secret we're on a much better footing with each other.

Only...

… They don't know me, and we're not.

Ethan knows that I was once an agent, Jane and Benji know about Croatia, and I...

… Still feel nothing.

Numb. Empty. Out of my depth and sinking fast.

I mean, it just doesn't change anything at all and, really, why should it? Ethan, I'm fairly certain, is unimpressed with the way I kept the truth to myself, the others may possibly even feel sorry for me for the way I'm drowning in my own sense of guilt and failure, and, really, other than that I'm still pretty much the same unknown entity I've been ever since I first landed – uninvited – in their lives. 

An unknown entity that, through no fault of their own, they seem to be stuck with.

IMF. Analyst. Ex-agent. The walking, talking equivalent of facial recognition software. Surprisingly good fighter, and... alarmingly... skilled at disarming an opponent. Seemingly pleasant enough even if he does play his cards close to his chest, and not without his uses. Secretive, though, and why didn't he just come clean in the beginning? Hiding the truth like that, it's just not... normal. And losing the plot over misreading a mission? Even if it did result in a woman's death, surely, as reactions go, that's a bit over the top as well. Let's face it, shit happens, and most people manage to just suck it up and carry on. Can we even trust him? He needs to tell Ethan the truth about Croatia. And what's to stop him from just dropping his bundle again?

Whatever it is they're thinking of me, I don't blame them for a second as, hell, if I was in their shoes I'd most likely be thinking along the exact same lines myself. I gatecrash their team, keep the truth from them, have the nerve to – lose control – rant at them because I'm so worked up over how badly everything is going and the fact the fucking launch codes are in the wind, dump... at least a small part of the truth... on them when they've already got more than enough on their plates as it is, point a loaded weapon at Ethan, and now, instead of staying put in order to try to answer all the questions they're no doubt wanting to ask me, I'm hiding out in this truly disgusting excuse for a shower and fighting a losing battle to get my racing thoughts under control. 

I just...

If it's not one thing it's another.

The Secretary's death. Of all the agents who could have been in Moscow, it just had to be Ethan who was fortuitous enough to get his extraction call in before IMF effectively ceased to exist. Finding myself in the middle of a high-pressure, high-stress mission. The breath restricting, stomach clenching insanity of not only Ethan's climb up the outside of the world's tallest building, but also the fact – not, mind you, that it comes in any way close to cleaning my slate – that I somehow managed to save him from plummeting to his death. Hendricks, the man we believe to be Cobalt, masquerading as Wistrom and successfully getting away with the nuclear launch codes. Sabine Moreau falling to her death courtesy of a well aimed kick from Jane. Sidorov both popping up where we least expected him to and clearly being far better informed as to our whereabouts than we ever thought he would be. 

The fact that absolutely fucking nothing is going to either plan or our way. 

Moreau was meant to be an asset. The launch codes were – absolutely, no question about it – meant to remain safely in our possession, not Hendricks'. Our equipment, from the mask creator to whatever the fuck those gloves were that Benji sent Ethan up the outside of the Burj Khalifa in, was meant to work properly and not fail us at every turn. Sidorov was meant to be running his investigation into the explosions at the Kremlin from Moscow. I...

… Was only meant to be the... 'helper'.

That's all.

Assist where I could, and remain, lurking, in the background.

I was never meant to have to fight for both mine and Ethan's life.

I was never meant to be placed in a situation where I had no choice other than to give a glimpse of... what I used to be.

I was never meant to have to play a role in an active mission or be part of a team again.

It just wasn't meant to be like this at all.

And yet...

I don't entirely regret the fact that, well, I'm here. I'm far, not that this is exactly anything new, from happy, and it would be a complete and utter lie to say I felt any sort of either catharsis or relief at having had a couple of my secrets both slip out and be received about as well as could possibly be expected, but...

I saved Ethan. 

In the midst of all the uncertainty... and the self doubt... and everything going to shit one step at a time, I... caught Ethan's foot and saved him from falling to his certain death. It doesn't make us equal, and nor will it even enter the equation whenever – or... if ever – I raise the courage to come clean about Croatia, but, regardless of this, Ethan's still alive because of me. If I hadn't been there things may well have ended differently and, because of this I...

… In my own messed up way, I'm glad that I was there.

I am.

I caught Ethan, and, thanks to being able to identify both Leonid Lisenker and the fact he'd have been there to verify the launch codes, I was instrumental in saving Jane's cover and – ignoring, here, the positively insignificant fact of there being a nut job now running around with real nuclear launch codes – stopping things from going even more spectacularly to shit, and, while I have no real doubt that he would have managed it on his own if I hadn't been there, I also helped Ethan take out Moreau's henchmen. 

Just... Seriously. Go me.

Maybe, needing any sort of silver lining where I can get it, I'm just clutching at straws here, but I like to think that, if nothing else, I've played my part, that I'm not just... a passenger along for the ride because Ethan couldn't find it in himself to leave a poor, bedraggled analyst to fend for himself in the back streets of Moscow.

That...

… I'm not entirely as useless as I've done such a good job of convincing myself that I am.

The way I now see it though is like this. I've paid Ethan back for not leaving me to either drown or take a bullet in the river and now, for everyone's sake, he should just cut me loose. While it was one thing having an unwanted analyst along for the ride, surely, now that that tiny percentage of the truth has come out, everyone would have to be in agreement that they'd just be better off without me. Granted, I'm of more use as an actual agent as opposed to just some intel-obsessed desk jockey, but what I also am is, and this is across the board here, dishonest and, to Benji and Jane, as I'm convinced they now pity me as much as they question my mental state, I'd just have to be some sort of liability who needs to grow a pair and harden the fuck up.

He's lost it once, so what's to stop him losing it again?

Ethan, assuming that is he ever returns from his mysterious meet, won't be able to trust me because he won't be able to make sense of why I kept the fact I'd been an agent from him, and the others, if they've got any sense, won't be able to trust me because they'd be just waiting for the completely inopportune moment for me to once again lose my shit.

So...

I should go.

I should save Ethan from coming back here to the safe house only to have to raise the effort of finding the right words to tell me that my services are no longer required, and... just be on way.

I should... stop playing my seemingly favourite game of going over and over things in my head, drag my ass out of the shower and simply disappear. 

They don't need me. Luck smiling on me for a change, I've already achieved more than I ever hoped to and, not needing to run the risk of my minor successes going to my head and making me mistakenly believe that I still have it in me to do this after all, I should take the only sensible option open to me and just leave them to it.

I...

I don't need them.

I don't need Jane's look of understanding or Benji's friendly chatter. Nor do I... need... to tell Ethan the truth about how his wife might still be alive if only I'd put more weight behind my sixth sense than I did on my trained in to me desire to just do as I'm told and toe the party line. Explaining things – or even begging for his forgiveness – won't bring her back and, having enough to occupy his mind with at the moment, he just doesn't need to know. 

The timing isn't right. It's not going to change anything. Hating myself enough as it is, I...

… I don't want Ethan to hate me too.

It's pathetic and illogical, and it's not as though we're ever going to be friends or even that he doesn't... deserve... the truth, but, I just really don't want him to have a reason to hate me. Doubt, distrust, or even contempt, I can handle, but just not hate. Having seen his brilliance, dedication, and work ethic up close these past few days, I just, regardless of the fact I know it serves no purpose, admire him too much for that.

Even if I do deserve it.

Sighing, I open my eyes and have just started to reluctantly reach for the taps to turn them off when, to my surprise as much as to my horror, the door to the bathroom is abruptly shoved open and Jane steps into the room.

“Okay, you, Ethan just called and...” Trailing off as she notices that what passes for a shower in this particular safe-house just happens to be little more than a shower head over a drain in the floor and that, hey, courtesy of there being neither a door nor a curtain to provide a barrier between us, she's now staring directly at my naked body, she gives a small shrug and appears supremely unbothered by what, to me at least, is nothing if not a surreal moment. “Sorry,” she mutters with a complete lack of conviction as, with both another shrug and a lingering glance that I just know has far, far more to do with the sight of all the scars that litter my body than it does with just trying to check out how... big or not... I might happen to be, she grabs a towel from off the rack and holds it out towards me. “I tried to get your attention by calling through the door but, seeing as that didn't work, here I am.”

“Oddly enough, I can see that,” I reply as, knowing that there's not really anything I can do about the situation, I turn the taps off and, after taking it from her, calmly tie the towel around my waist.

“Mmm... But I bet I saw more,” Jane retorts with a grin as she drags her gaze away from my chest and winks at me. “Uh... I am sorry, though. If I'd remembered about the state of the shower I never would...”

“As it's not as though I've got anything you haven't seen before, it doesn't matter,” I interrupt, giving her an openly curious look as I step out of the shower and grab another one of the dirty looking towels from off the rack. “Now that you're here though, can I... help... you?”

“You can help me by getting dressed and joining us in the car,” she responds. “As I was about to say before being... uh... thrown by the whole lack of shower curtain thing, Ethan just called with the coordinates for the private airfield he wants us to meet him at. So...” Shrugging, she starts to move towards the door. “Get your clothes on and let's get out of here.”

“Uh... I don't think...”

“Don't start that,” Jane states as, coming to a stop by the door, she turns to fix me with a no-nonsense look. “I know what you're thinking, and... I want you to stop it. You're...”

“Ethan won't want...”

“Ethan specifically stated that he wants the three of us... Did you hear that? The... three... of us... to meet him at the airfield.”

“But...” 

“Uh! No buts. If Ethan didn't want you to see the mission through he would have said so.”

“Jane, I...”

“Listen, Brandt...” Trailing off again, she sighs and, walking over to stand next to me, places her hand lightly on my arm. “Will... Is it okay if I call you Will?”

“What? Uh... Of course.” Taken aback both by Jane's proximity and the way she clearly has no intention of taking no for an answer, I shake my head and, not feeling worthy of her concerned gaze, look past her to the door. “I... I'm fine with Will, but... Ethan, he...”

“Wants you,” Jane finishes as she closes her hand tightly around my arm. “He wants you to stay with us and... the reason for this is because we need you.”

“What? No.” I shake my head again and pull my arm away. “You don't. You... can't. You know... uh... some of the truth now, and...”

“We wouldn't have made it this far without you,” Jane interjects as, changing tack slightly, she punches me in the upper arm. “Yes, you lied about having been an agent and, okay, fine, I personally think you need to tell Ethan the truth about having been in Croatia, but... We need you. We've only made it to this point because you've been with us and, unless you can give me one hell of a reason as to why you shouldn't continue on this fucked up excuse for a mission with us, you're... going to get dressed and get in the Goddamn car!”

“Uh...” I don't believe her, and I know I'm only opening myself up to yet more worry and doubt, but, just as it was when Ethan presented his case to me in the train carriage, what other choice do I really have?

I... can... do this.

I might not want to, but I... can.

And, solely for the sake of protecting the world from Cobalt and his crazy, deadly philosophies, I... have... to.

“I... I still think you're all making a mistake,” I state with a resigned sigh as I gesture Jane towards the door, “but... Just give a minute or two to get dressed and... for better or for worse... we'll be on our way.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

And I catch you.

Jump...

… And I catch you.

Just...

What the fuck?

Thanks to English being my native language, it's not as though the problem I'm having with all of this lies with... comprehending... the, harebrained though it may be, role I've been designated to play in Mumbai. It's not even the fact that it seems to me as though, despite Benji's tech-based faith and assertions to the contrary, it's highly like to end in my all but certain death that's causing me to – yet again – regret... ever having stepped foot out of D.C.. What's more, I do actually get – the whole magnets and what looks to be a chainmail suit thing aside – everything that Benji's explained to me and just why it is the task is so important. I even, because I'm nothing if not both logical and pragmatic, made my peace with the idea of IMF being the death of me when I accepted my first mission all those years ago.

So, you know, Benji's faith proves to be misguided, the magnets fail, I fall – or, alternatively, get baked alive – to my death, and...

Whatever.

At the risk of sounding either blasé or as though I should be in a padded cell somewhere, what will be will be. It's not death that I'm afraid of.

No.

It's...

… Putting my trust not so much in the – questionable – technology, but in Benji.

Hell. Not even Benji personally, but in... another human being.

And I just don't know if I can do it.

Not after...

… Everything I've been through.

It's just...

While behaving like a spineless coward in regards to letting Ethan know about my involvement in the death of his wife is one thing, actually having to find it in myself to trust in another is just something else entirely. One, I both hate, and am disgusted by, while the other...

Well, to be perfectly honest, it terrifies me.

Again, it's not the possibility of either dying or coming to harm that I'm having trouble just accepting and moving on from, it's...

… Putting both my life and my ability to successfully play my role in Benji's hands.

… Having the mission reliant on my skills to see it through.

… Believing that I can actually do it, that, albeit deeply hidden, I do still have it in me to succeed and not just... fuck everything up.

And I just don't know if I can do it.

I mean, seeing as I don't trust myself, how on earth am I supposed to be able to put my trust in someone else?

It's because of the actions of another that – once, that is, I realised that I couldn't hide forever and had to find something hopefully useful to do with my time – I found myself leading a protection detail in Croatia. Which, in turn, led me to losing all trust in myself.

And...

… Here I am.

Smack bang in the middle of a mission with the agent whose wife I failed so spectacularly to protect, and having to trust in not only myself but also in others.

At the risk as sounding as though I'm fixated on this particular line of thought, if all of this isn't some bored deity's idea of a warped joke then, seriously, I don't know what is.

Jump.

… If I can force myself to.

And I'll catch you.

… All being well, that is.

Slumping back in my seat, I bite back the urge to sigh and, proving once and for all that when you're down, you're really down, inadvertently make the mistake of catching Benji's eyes as he glances over the top of his laptop at me.

“Got your head around it yet?” he grins as, pushing the computer aside, he follows my lead by leaning back in his seat.

“Jump, and... you'll catch me?” I mutter, giving Benji a wry look from under an arched brow. “I get it. I'm far from enamoured with it, but you can rest assured that I most definitely get it.”

“Trust me, the technology's sound,” Benji replies with another grin as he glances down at the technologically-advanced chainmail suit and what looks for all the world like a smaller sized equivalent of the Mars Rover that's accompanying it as they sit, taunting me, in the aisle next our small table.

“Trust you,” I murmur glumly as, with a slow shake of my head, I look across the table at Benji. “Uh... Absolutely. Not a problem.”

“I'll catch you.”

“Uh-huh. You'll catch me.”

“Think positively!”

Think positively? Dear God. That's a novel thought. “How do you know this... isn't... me thinking positively?” I retort, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “Look. This is me. Thinking... positively...”

“So that's what it is, huh,” Benji responds, peering at me closely as his expression changes to one of open curiosity. “Actually... On that. Given that you're still such an unknown entity, for all that I know that could have just been your... listening face...”

“My... listening face?” Seriously, now, I think, I've heard everything.

“Well, you know... One minute you're an analyst, and the next you're an agent, and...” Pausing, Benji glances over at Ethan and Jane as they sit, chatting, on the beige leather sofa opposite our table, and gives an expansive shrug. “I don't know, surely I can't be the only one wondering just why it is none of us have seen around HQ before!”

Jane's expression, which had been looking nothing if not a little down in the dumps ever since she returned from the jet's private bedroom after having heard the role she's going to have to undertake in Mumbai from Ethan, brightening at Benji's comment, she jerks her head up and looks over at me expectantly. “Actually,” she declares, leaning forward in what I can only imagination is anticipation, “that happens to be a very good point.”

“Ha! There's no need to sound so surprised that I was the one to finally raise... that which we've all been thinking anyway!” Benji exclaims, affecting a wounded expression as, perhaps in the hope of him wading in and taking his side, he glances at Ethan. “I'm not just a pretty face, you know.”

“Well, that's a relief, then,” Jane drawls as she makes a very deliberate point of looking him up and down. “That... Seriously. That's good to know.”

“Hey! Since when did this become about me?” Benji retorts with a dejected sounding sniff as he airily waves his hand in my general direction. “Him! It's about Mr Secretive over there, not me.”

“That it is.” Flashing a quick – 'no harm meant' – smile at Benji, Jane fixes me with a look and, just like he did a moment ago, gestures at me. “So, what gives, huh? Like Benji just mentioned, why haven't any of us seen you around the place before?”

“I...” Noticing that Ethan's both gazing at me intently and doing one hell of an Oscar award winning job of hiding just what it is he happens to be thinking behind an unreadable expression, I shrug and look down at the table. “It... It's confidential,” I murmur with another small shrug as I desperately search for a way to answer this – admittedly inevitable – question without digging myself in to an even deeper hole. Given that I knew that it was coming, that it... had... to be coming, you'd have perhaps thought that I'd have a response for it lined up by now. But... No. Of course not. That would be too easy, and it's not as though I could have that. “And before you tell me that I don't have to be bound by this as IMF doesn't currently exist,” I add just a touch blithely as I continue to feign fascination with the tabletop, “I... I signed a confidentiality clause before my first mission that I suspect will follow me to the grave and... uh... Sorry. I know it doesn't help your curiosity any, but I... I have no intention of breaking it.”

“That's the best you can come up with?” Jane mutters with a huff of disappointment. “Sorry but I'm just not buying it. Like you said, IMF's currently defunct and, besides, even if it wasn't we all share the same clearance level and...”

“Actually, that's not... entirely... true,” Ethan interjects as, not liking the fact he's suddenly decided to take part in this, for a want of a better description, conversation, I reluctantly turn my head and glance over at him. “There's different clearance levels for... different... branches within IMF, aren't there, Brandt...”

“I...” Damn. Don't ask me how, but he knows. He knows what I used to be and, while he may not be aware of any of the actual specifics, the fact that he even knows this much is still yet another one of those nasty surprises that's as unexpected as it is unwelcome. “Of course there's different clearance levels,” I reply as non-committally as I can manage. “Take the Secretary for example, despite the fact I worked closely with him there were still things that he had to keep from me because I didn't share the same clearance as he did.”

“But...” His expression one of confusion, Benji shakes his head and, no doubt in search of clarification, glances hopefully at Ethan. “We're all agents, yeah, so... Shouldn't we have the same clearance level?”

“We mere field agents share the same level,” Ethan states, keeping his gaze fixed on mine as, just as I'm becoming used to, his expression gives absolutely nothing away, “but you weren't any old mere field agent, were you, Brandt?”

“I...”

“What are you talking about, Ethan?” Benji interrupts as, seemingly both exasperated at how long this is all taking, and as though he's in danger of being eaten alive by curiosity, he gives first Ethan, and then me, an imploring look. “Since when were there designated clearance levels for field agents? I mean... You're either a field agent or you're not, right?”

“Not exactly,” Ethan responds as he ignores Benji's obvious impatience in favour of keeping his searing gaze locked on me. “Take Brandt over there for example, while I doubt he's going to come out and admit it because, as well all know already, it wouldn't exactly be in character for him, I think he was a Ghost.”

And...

… There you go.

There it is.

Just like that, and without the benefit of being able to access any of my files back at HQ, he knows.

“A... what? Did you just say he was a... Ghost?” Looking perplexed, if not completely and utterly confused by Ethan's... bombshell, Benji peers across the table at me and shakes his head. “I know! Maybe I didn't hear correctly and what you really said...”

“I thought they were only a rumour,” Jane murmurs as, like Benji, she stares at me as though she's never seen anything quite like it before. “You know, an urban myth unique to the corridors of IMF. I... I never thought they were actually... real...”

“That... what... were actually real?” Benji demands, rolling his eyes as he once again turns around to face Ethan. “That... Ghosts... were real? I hope you all know that you're breaking my brain and I wouldn't have a damn clues as to what you're all on about!”

“Ghosts are... the best of the best,” Jane explains, shooting Ethan a surprised look for not having been the one to speak up first. “They're like, I don't know, IMF's answer to Navy SEALS or something... exceptional... like that as there's nothing they're not meant to be able to do.”

“They're also experts at long term undercover work,” Ethan adds in a quiet, neutral tone as, showing no signs of having tired of it yet, he continues to gaze at me impassively. “They go in, and that's where they stay, on their own, until the mission is complete. They don't work as part of a team and their only backup is their handler back at HQ.”

“But... If they're so great, why haven't I heard of them before?” Benji queries with a frown as, just like Jane did a moment a go, he makes a point of looking – little ol', nondescript, and definitely far from SEAL like – me up and down. “I mean, I'm not saying that I think you're pulling my leg or anything, but...”

“The Elite Squad don't like to make their existence known and, like their... Ghosts... they've made an art form of flying under the radar,” Ethan responds as, shrugging, he relaxes against the back of the sofa and casually crosses his legs. “Believe me though, Benji, Ghosts, and just as Jane said, they really are the best of the best, do exist and... you're looking at one sitting across the table from you.”

“But... Uh...” Pausing, Benji gives me a weak, apologetic looking smile. “No disrespect to Will or... uh... anything like that, but... If these... Ghosts... are the best of the best, and, look I don't want to sound like a rabid fan boy here, but...” Trailing off, he glances at Ethan. “I've just got to ask, you know... If this... Elite Squad... only want the best, why aren't you one of these mysterious Ghosts, huh, Ethan?”

“He was,” I reply, not so much because I want to turn the heat on Ethan but because, even if it is only for petty, meaningless reasons, I want him to know that, should push come to shove, I know far more about him than he does about me. “Weren't you, Ethan?”

“I was,” Ethan confirms as what I swear looks to be a smug, knowing smirk tugs on the corners of his lips. “For fifteen months some nine or so years back now, I completed two missions as a Ghost. While it was...”

“But...”

“As I'd been going to say,” he continues, shooting Benji a warning look for having dared to interrupt him, “while it was an honour both to have been deemed worthy, and to have worked for the Elite Squad, I walked away after only two missions because I missed working with a team. That, and... it made me feel lonely.”

Lonely...

Now, while it's not what I expected to be behind Ethan's reason for leaving the Elite Squad for... mere... field work, what it is, however, is a feeling I know only far too well. 

Lonely. Disconnected.

Invisible.

“But... I...” Sighing, Benji slumps back in his seat and holds his hands up in a sort of 'I give up' gesture. “Whatever. Maybe I'm just tired, but all of this seems to be going over my head. Ghosts... and Elite Squads... and Will being... Uh... Whatever it is he is...”

“All you need to know, Benji,” Ethan states, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa as, somewhat to my consternation, he flashes an unbothered grin at me, “is this... Putting everything from Elite Squads and Ghosts to... being kept in the dark aside, the mission couldn't be in a better pair of hands...”

“Uh... I think you're over-crediting both my skills and my...

“And I know you're working yourself up for reasons known only to yourself and, which, until I know just what they happen to be or am proven to the contrary, I'm not planning on buying in to,” Ethan interrupts as, narrowing his eyes slightly, he silences me with a look. “Now... Just so we're all clear, let's go over what everyone's role is once we reach the party...”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Mission accomplished.

I'm still not entirely sure... how... we did it, but we did it.

Cobalt and Wistrom are both dead, the nuclear missile, which despite all our best efforts still managed to be launched, was neutralised with barely seconds to spare, Sidorov's been forced to accept that we are actually on the same side as he is after all and, while it's only the start of what's going to be a very long road, the President has already retracted Ghost Protocol and IMF is back up and running again.

Somehow, we did it.

Together, we not only stopped Cobalt but we're also still here to tell the tale. 

Jane, although by all accounts it's – thankfully – not much more than a flesh wound, took a bullet and is still in recovery, Benji's on some sort of adrenaline fuelled high that, when it wears off, is going to leave him flatter than a pancake for I suspect weeks to come, Ethan's pretty badly banged up and likely to be walking with crutches for a while once, that is, he's fit enough to get out of his hospital bed, and...

… I'm so tired and worn out that, despite knowing that I shouldn't be here and should just be waiting outside the hospital for the car that's going to take me straight to the airport, I'm sitting, slumped in a chair that I've pulled so close to Ethan's bed that I'm able to – achieve that which would otherwise be close to impossible – keep my head propped up by digging my elbow into the mattress and resting my cheek in the palm of my hand.

It's over.

I didn't, although God knows how, fuck anything up, and it's finally over. I know I should feel relieved, if not even possibly just that tiny bit proud of myself for having done all that was asked of me, but, as is pretty much par for the course these days, all I still feel is... numb.

Empty.

I played my part, I survived – jumping – the others discovering that I used to be a Ghost, and now, feeling no more confident around Ethan than when he first climbed in to the car in Moscow, I have to be on my way.

I don't...

… Regardless of that curious feeling of longing that I'm trying so desperately to ignore, belong here.

It may only be Benji's first mission in the field, but already I can see that he more than has what it takes to be a highly successful field agent. What he lacks in natural talent he makes up for with both enthusiasm and a willingness to take on anything that's thrown at him and, most importantly of all, he's reliable. You look at Benji, and what you see is what you get. Jane, too. She's independent, confident, and a tenacious fighter. She's also not one to suffer fools lightly and you always know where you stand with her.

As for Ethan...

Well, he really is just brilliant. Instinctual, determined, and someone you always want to be on your side.

I...

I like them.

Benji's fun to be with, Jane – now that she's warmed to me – is a reassuring voice of reason, and Ethan, he...

… He's made me feel far more welcome and worthy of my place in the team than I deserve.

He's stood up for me, stood by me and, even if it was only out of necessity, got me through.

I like him. I probably shouldn't, and I know that once the truth comes out – and it will – we'll never be able to be friends, but I just do.

I like him a lot and, as with so many aspects of my fucked up life, wish that things could be different.

I wish that his wife was still alive. I wish that we'd met under different circumstances. I wish that I could be open and honest with him. I wish, and this perhaps more than anything would be my most fervent wish, that we could be friends. And...

… I wish that I could stay on the team.

This team.

We might have been thrown together, and I have no difficulty whatsoever in accepting that I was the weakest link, but somehow, against some pretty daunting odds, we managed to work together and do exactly what it was we'd set out to do.

And now it's over.

Benji will remain in Mumbai with Ethan and Jane until they're well enough to fly back to the States, while, being needed back at HQ to start cleaning up the mess caused by Ghost Protocol having abruptly shut down all active missions, I'll be in the air and heading back to D.C. within the hour.

It mightn't be what I want, but it's what has to be.

As Chief Analyst I'm needed to review all the intel pertaining to the ruined missions, the timing, given the amount of pain killers in his system and the pain he'll be in, isn't right to... come clean... to Ethan and, as always, just what will be will be.

I can't stay here. I'm not... needed... here, and...

… All good – or, alternatively, unsettling yet ultimately rewarding – things must come to an end.

“You're hurt...”

Startled by the sound, even if it is both quiet and groggy, of Ethan's voice, I turn to face him and, not really knowing how else to react, give a small shrug. “Hate to break this to you,” I murmur with a weak smile, “but of the two of us, I'm not the one pumped full of painkillers and stuck in a hospital bed.”

“You're hurt,” Ethan repeats, blinking me in to focus as, slowly lifting his arm and lightly touching his finger to the corner of my mouth, he struggles to consciousness. “Brandt...”

“It's nothing,” I mutter as, even more startled by the gentleness of his touch against my cut lip, I pull back and sit up straighter against the back of the chair. “Wistrom and I had a slight disagreement over power usage, that's all...”

“Who...” No doubt not liking how weak and dithery he's feeling, Ethan gives a soft huff of annoyance and lowers his arm back down on to the mattress. “Who won?” 

“I was still arguing my case when Benji came in and cast the deciding vote,” I reply lightly as, unable to help myself, I lean forward and fuss over smoothing the bedding down around Ethan.

“Huh?” he grunts, giving me a look that's as befuddled and it is frustrated by the strange, foggy world he's woken to find himself in.

“He shot him,” I clarify with a shrug as, the nasty hospital bedding looking about as good as anyone has any hope of getting it, I relax back in my chair.

“Oh. Well done Benji.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Jane. What about... Uh... I'd rather you told me about...”

“Jane's going to be fine,” I interrupt, gesturing towards the wall behind Ethan's head. “The bullet was a through and through and, not having nicked any vital organs, it's pretty much just a flesh wound. She's still in recovery though, which is just down the corridor from here, and, not that I suspect this will come as any surprise to you, Benji's all but super-glued himself to her side.”

“Good.” Keeping his eyes open through what I imagine has nothing to do with actual energy and everything to do with determination, Ethan sighs with obvious relief and slowly turns his head to better face me. “I'm glad.”

“That makes three of us,” I reply. “We're all still here, the world's still oblivious to Cobalt's insane plan, and you... You did it.”

“We did it,” he corrects as, groggy or not, he still manages to fix me with a – 'and don't waste your breath trying to argue with me' – look. “We did it as a team, Brandt, and we couldn't have done it without you.”

“I...”

“Uh! Don't. Just... Don't...”

“But...”

“I may never know what your problem is,” Ethan interjects as, with a grimace of pain, he pushes himself up in to more of a sitting position, “but if it wasn't for you they'd still be cleaning me up from the base of the Burj.”

“So what you're really saying is that I... I saved some cleaners from a bit of hard work,” I murmur facetiously. “In that case, you're right. I certainly played my...”

“I'm... saying more than that,” Ethan mutters, slumping back against the pillows at his back with a pained sounding sigh, “but if that's how you choose, or... are determined... to hear it, then...” Pausing, he sighs again and, through eyes that are clearly struggling to stay open, gives me a sad look. “Just... What happened to you, Brandt? You're a much better...”

Saved from having to hear the rest of Ethan's... lecture... by my phone loudly beeping that its received a message, I stand up and, after retrieving it from my pocket, read that – with completely perfect timing – my car has pulled up outside of the hospital. “Sorry, but I've got to go,” I state with what I just know is a failed attempt at an apologetic smile as I start to move towards the door. “The President having retracted Ghost Protocol, I'm needed back in D.C. and... uh... seeing as both you and Jane are going to be okay, I...”

“Once a Ghost, always... a Ghost,” Ethan mutters flatly as he settles himself back down the mattress. “Go. I can't stop you. But... Know this. I haven't finished with you, Brandt. Not... Not by a long shot.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Billy!”

Although the male voice calling out the most loathed variation of my name from above my head on the mezzanine is a familiar one, I ignore it and, without even bothering to look up, just keep walking along the corridor.

“Billy! Billy Brandt!”

“He's only going to keep calling you that, you know,” another familiar voice announces from just behind me as, knowing when I'm cornered, I come to a stop and turn around to greet Jane with both a shrug and a roll of my eyes. “He knows you hate it, but...”

“You sure of that?” I mutter, glancing up at the mezzanine and noting with no great surprise that Benji's already disappeared and is no doubt heading our way. “I mean, I never took him to be someone who'd take his... continued well being... so lightly.”

“You really hate it, huh?” Jane queries, flashing me a sympathetic smile as she links her elbow around mine and gives my arm a friendly little squeeze.

I roll my eyes again and, accepting that her arm around mine is probably her less than subtle way of ensuring I don't make a run for it, give hers a squeeze in return. “Oh, you have no idea,” I reply in a dry tone. “I had to put up with being called it by just about every school bully I had the misfortune to encounter growing up and, okay, while I know Benji only does it to push my buttons and that at the end of the day it doesn't matter a damn, I... You're right. I hate it.”

“I've tried telling him that, but as you haven't really given him any cause to rethink his... button pushing... yet, he thinks it's perfectly okay, that, deep down, you probably even enjoy it, and that, hey, there's no reason for him to change his ways,” Jane replies, glancing over at the elevator just as the doors slide silently open and, beaming happily, Benji steps out and immediately begins to head our way. “In other words, Will, and I really do hate to say it, not only do you bring it on yourself, but you're also the only one who can stop it.”

“So...” Smirking, I pull my arm free of Jane's and give her a cunning look. “If I were to... stop it right now, I could, if asked, say that I was only... standing up for myself, or... doing as I was told?

“Uh... Before I answer that, I need to know if your version of... cease and desist... comes with the risk of scarring?”

“Depends on what your stance is on... psychological... scarring.”

“Nightmares?”

“Doubtful. Depends, really, if it works the first time or whether I have to keep it up.”

Grinning, Jane gives an airy shrug and, as Benji finally reaches us, takes a small step back from me. “In that case, go for it, I say.”

“That's what I was hoping you'd say,” I reply, returning Jane's grin with one of my own. “Just remember though, if this goes pear shaped I'm blaming it entirely on you.”

“If... what... goes pear shaped?” Benji queries as, frowning, he glances first at Jane and then at me. “Billy? What's...”

“Uh! What have I told you before about calling me that?” I interrupt, folding my arms across my chest and fixing Benji with my very best attempt at a severely pissed off look. “I don't mind if you call me...”

“Billy is an accepted derivation of William, and... I like it!” Benji retorts as, quite literally laughing in the face of my annoyance, he claps his hand down on my shoulder and beams. “Personally, I think it's got a nice ring to it. Billy. Billy Brandt... See? It just rolls off the tongue.”

“Well, news flash here, Benji, I don't happen to agree with you and, while I'm at it, I don't like it,” I mutter, dropping my shoulder away from Benji's hand. “And, what's more, and I'm not going to ask this again, I really would like you to stop using it.”

“Nope!” Benji retorts with a quick poke of his tongue at me. “Billy...”

“I'm warning you...”

“You can warn me all you like... Billy.”

“Okay. That's it.” Shrugging, I grab Benji's wrist and, before his mouth has even had time to drop open in shock, have him, with his arm twisted behind his back, down on his knees in front of me. “Now... You can't say that you weren't warned.”

“What? Shit! Ow! You're hurting me!” Benji complains as, knowing that struggling isn't going to do him any good, he looks – plaintively – to Jane for assistance. “Jane! Get him off me!”

Shaking her head, Jane crouches down next to Benji and, as a woman wearing a visitor's pass on the lapel of her jacket gives us a wide berth as she hurriedly scurries past, plants a light kiss on his cheek. “Sorry, Benji,” she murmurs sweetly, “but having brought this on yourself, you're on your own.” 

“But... But he's hurting me!” Benji exclaims in a odd sort of yelping tone.

“Hurting you? This isn't... hurting... you,” I smile, ever-so-slightly increasing the angle I'm holding his arm at. “This is just... warming you up.”

“Warming me up? What? No! I... Look. I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry for...”

“I'm not after an apology.”

“Then... What? What do you...”

“I want you to remember my name, that's all,” I declare, winking at Jane as, it all getting too much for her, she starts to laugh. “So... Think, Benji. What's my name?”

“Arsehole?” he grinds out as, even though he's looking increasingly red in the face, he still has to try to go down the facetious route. 

“Not that one, my... other... name,” I smirk, amused as much by his response as I am by the fact this is even happening. “Come on, Benji. As I don't want to spend any longer doing this than you do, you just need to think really hard and I'm sure you can do it.”

“Will! Your name's Will!” Benji all but shouts. “Just... Okay, okay. I get it. You've had enough of being called Billy and... uh... if I want to be able to keep the use of my arm, I'll do well to remember it.”

“Now we're on the same page,” I reply with a smug, self-satisfied smile as I release my grip on Benji's wrist and help him up. “Sorry, but Jane seemed to imply that my requests weren't getting through to you and that it was up to me to do something about it.”

“Should have known that...someone... would have put you up to it,” Benji mutters, glancing over at Jane as he puts on a bit of show of straightening himself up. “But... Fine.” Holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, he shrugs and flashes us both a grin. “You win. While I might still be thinking that... Arsehole... is probably a bit more apt as a name at the moment, I promise never to call you Billy again. So... How does that sound?”

“Like music to my ears,” I respond, holding my hand out to Benji and waiting for him to shake it. “No hard feelings, huh?”

“No hard feelings,” he confirms as, still grinning, he closes his hand around mine and gives it a quick shake. “Now... Enough hilarity for the time being.” Releasing my hand, he takes a step back and positions himself alongside Jane. “Have you...”

“Not yet,” Jane interrupts. “First I was waiting for you to join us, and then I had to wait for Will to finish teaching you the error of your ways. So, no, I haven't raised it yet.”

Knowing just what it is they're wanting to raise with me even before they say it, I feel the light heartedness and good humour of only a moment ago slip away and only just manage to resist the urge to sigh. If I'd thought about it instead of just losing myself in both the banter and the simple, easy going companionship that goes hand in hand with the familiarity and friendship that I'm now lucky enough to have with Jane and Benji, I'd have known that this was coming from the very second I first heard my name being called out. And, knowing it, I could have – I... should have – reacted accordingly and, simply put, made a run for it.

They mean well.

Ethan... probably doesn't have any ulterior motives either.

Part of me, the part that didn't go cold with dread the moment I saw the email, that is, is even... touched... to have been included.

But...

Some things never changing, I just don't think that I can.

I might want to. I might even be able to see the logic in it, but, again, some things just never changing, I...

… I'm afraid.

Eight weeks have passed since I returned to D.C. from Mumbai, and while things mightn't be ideal they're still better than they were before Cobalt came along and threw my life momentarily into disarray, and, to put it as simply as I possibly can, I'm wary of anything coming along to change it.

Or, in this case...

… Ethan Hunt.

I'm wary of Ethan once again throwing my life off course and, instead of embracing the opportunity to both unburden and, given that he's only ever going to react one way, free myself from him once and for all, I...

… Just want to go back to pretending he doesn't exist.

It's more or less worked for eight weeks now and, subscribing wholeheartedly to the whole 'head in the sand' school of thought, I don't see why it just can't continue to work indefinitely. If Ethan's not around I don't have to think about sitting him down and, with a few brief sentences, earning his lasting hatred, and can just go about my business. My admittedly blinkered, yet, at the same time, quite contented business, at that. Ghost Protocol having, as fully expected, fucked over everything from active missions to the very usefulness of all the intel IMF has ever collected, I've been flat out busy doing whatever I can to bring the agency safely back on line again. It's been hard, mentally exhausting work, and I doubt I would have been able to see it through without Jane and Benji. Since returning from Mumbai six weeks ago, they've... just been there for me in ways I doubt they even realise. Instead of turning their back on me – which, okay, I'm ashamed to admit I probably would have done to them if I'd just been left to my own devices and they hadn't been so insistent at searching me out at every available opportunity – they've just... been there. I certainly never expected them to be, and I was actually taken aback when, after having been prodded awake from my slumped slumber over a table in the cafeteria, I found them peering down at me with concerned expressions on their faces, but...

… They've stuck by me for reasons known only to themselves, and I really am grateful for it. 

Courtesy, Jane for both counselling and physical reconditioning, and Benji because his skills have been needed back in the tech department, of being as stuck inside HQ as I've been, we've met for a quick lunch together at least every second day and have even, with a bit of careful planning, been able to sneak out a couple of times for a much needed drink at a local bar. I enjoy their company and, so long as the conversation never strays uncomfortably close to either my past career as a Ghost, Ethan, or Croatia, our time together is always spent quite happily and I know that, with them, I've laughed more in these past six weeks than I have over the last twelve months.

What I also know though is that, and quite rightly so, too, they're loyal to Ethan and that if it ever came down to having to choose sides, they'd take him over me any day. Not because they don't like me, but because Ethan is – just... Ethan – still an active field agent who they'd no doubt like to be part of a team with. I both understand this completely and would never hold it against them as, to be honest here, it makes sense to me. While I might be a friend and someone they like to spend time with, I don't offer any career prospects and I'm logical enough to know that these things just have to be taken in to consideration.

I just...

Selfishly, I'd just hoped to have them for a little longer, that's all.

I mightn't deserve their friendship, and perhaps I've even made a mistake by letting them get so close, but I've relied on their company as much as I've enjoyed it these past six weeks and I really will be sorry to lose them.

“Knowing what you're going to say, here,” I murmur, shoving my hands in to my pockets as, not wanting to be able to see their expressions, I look down at absolutely nothing in particular on the floor, “let me save you the bother of having to voice it by saying that, yes, I received the email, and that the answer is... No. I... I'm not going to go.”

“How'd I know that was coming, huh,” Jane sighs as, wanting to get me to look up, she steps closer and taps her foot against mine. “Come on, Will. Take it as the... golden opportunity... that it is and just embrace it.”

“We're going,” Benji adds quietly. “In fact, we're really looking forward to seeing him again.”

Him.

Ethan.

After eight weeks of convalescing God alone knows where, Ethan has suddenly resurfaced in Seattle and, for some reason, he wants us to join him there.

Tonight.

Why exactly this could possibly be I wouldn't have a clue about and nor do I have any intention of finding out.

“I... While I... uh... appreciate the offer,” I murmur, giving Jane a beseeching look, “I couldn't possibly go on such short notice and am needed here to...”

“Crap you're needed here,” she interjects as she reaches out her hand and trails her fingers along my arm. “Everything is back up and running, we're only days from hearing whether the Acting Secretary is going to remain in the role or whether someone else is going to score it, and... you're in even more need of a break than we are, so...”

“In that case, my idea of taking a break is going home and going to bed, not... spending close to six hours on a plane in order to... uh... attend a meeting that I don't...”

“You're going to have to face him one of these days, Will,” Jane murmurs, “and you know it. I'm not saying it's going to be easy, but Ethan... He deserves an explanation as much as you... deserve a shot at absolution. You just can't go on like this, and I think...”

“He... He doesn't need to see me again.”

“Yet by sending you the email it's clear that he... wants... to see you again.”

“Yeah, well, he'll... get over it... when I don't show up tonight.”

“Actually, on that,” Benji pipes up a little hesitantly. “At Ethan's request we've actually booked you a seat on the same flight we're taking this afternoon.”

“You... What? No...” Shaking my head even though I know I'm only fighting a losing battle and that, no pun intended, I'm now just a passenger along for the ride, I fold my arms across my chest and glare at the pair of them as they stand, side-by-side, facing me. “I... I can't...”

“You can, and you're going to,” Jane replies as she shifts next to my side and places her arm around my shoulders. “It's Friday, you've done all that you can here for the time being, and... you're coming with us. Not because we're just blinding following Ethan's orders, but because it'll be good for you. You're a good person, Will, one who the both of just happen to be quite fond of and, I'm standing here telling you this as a friend, you need this. You need to face Ethan and tell him the truth about Croatia.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She's alive.

Julia.

Ethan's wife, she...

… She's still alive.

She's alive, and well, and living happily under a new name here in Seattle. Her accidental foray into the dangerous, insane, and adrenaline fuelled world that Ethan's chosen to make his living in proving in no uncertain terms that it's not one she wants anything to do with, they're – amicably – divorced, and...

She's not dead!

I'm not responsible for her death, and while it doesn't actually alter that much about how I view my own handling of what happened in Croatia, what it does change is my standing with Ethan. I still, to my way of thinking, fucked things up to some extent though because, although I was right in that things weren't exactly as they were meant to be, I wasn't able to get to the bottom of how exactly and just allowed myself to taken for a ride. Ethan's reasons for setting things up as he did are sound, and I have no difficulty in accepting that he's telling the truth when he says how incredibly sorry he is for what it put me through, but I still fell for the bullshit that I was being told hook, line, and sinker, and...

… That in itself is a failing.

I'm glad, hell, I'm overjoyed that Julia is still alive. Of course I am. It's like a crushing weight has finally been lifted from my shoulders. Knowing that I'm not responsible for the death of an innocent woman and... that Ethan doesn't have a reason to hate my guts, it's just incredible. 

It really is.

I don't even care that I've been living, and beating myself up over, a complete lie for the past four months. Compared to a woman's life, what's a bit of blame and self-loathing, anyway? I still blew the mission, so nothing's changed there, and, despite this being just about the last thing I ever expected to have come out of my... summons... to Seattle, I really do feel both lighter and, in relation to Ethan at least, absolved. 

He did what he had to do to free the woman he'd loved at the time, and I reacted the way that I did because I... was already vulnerable and taking the blame just made perfect sense to me.

Maybe I'm taking it too easily, and when the shock and relief of the moment has worn off and I find myself alone again I might even view things in a slightly dimmer light, but I don't hold any of it against Ethan. How could I? He didn't know me, he certainly didn't know that the agent in charge of the protection detail would lose the plot over it as spectacularly as he did, and, having first carefully thought it through, he just did what he had to do. If I'd been in his shoes I probably would have done exactly the same thing.

Granted, he wouldn't have reacted like I did if our positions had been reversed, but, you know something, I don't care about that either. We're two entirely different people, Ethan – thankfully – doesn't have my deep-seated issues, and...

… We're okay.

His ex-wife is still alive, the truth, even if it didn't fall from my own tongue, is finally out in the open, and I like to think that there's now nothing standing in our way from becoming friends. He's explained his side of the story to me, apologised profusely for his part in throwing my life even further off course, and, if that wasn't already enough, the reason for him being so adamant that I had to come with Benji and Jane to Seattle was solely because, in case I'd gotten it in to my head to not believe him, he wanted to be able to prove it by pointing Julia out to me. Even though he would have known immediately that the... snippet... could have only come from me, he took Jane's slip of the tongue during the flight to Mumbai about knowing that his wife was dead and, instead of bringing me up on it, sat on his suspicions until he was in a position to both investigate and make as much sense of... my insider information... as he could. He then, instead of just picking up the phone or sending me an email to let me know that he was on to me, went... above and beyond in respect to making sure he got the – much needed – truth through my thick skull and, at the risk of sounding as though I'm easily impressed, I...

… I really am nothing short of amazed.

And relieved.

Oh God, I'm so fucking relieved that if Jane and Benji we're still here I honestly think I'd have to give them both a hug for making sure I dutifully toed the line and joined them in meeting Ethan in Seattle. I hadn't wanted to, and I spent most of the flight feeling as though I was going to throw up, but I'm glad that I did.

We're okay.

Ethan, even if it is misguidedly, thinks enough of me to not only go out of his way to bring me up to speed on the truth, but, even more amazingly, he even wants me to join Jane and Benji on his new team.

Active. Back in the field.

With my friends.

Who...

… Seem to believe in me.

They believe in my abilities, and my... worth, and I...

I just can't do it to them.

I can't let them take the unacceptable risk of putting their trust in me.

“You...” Standing up, I retrieve my bag from by my feet and, all the time keeping my hand curled tightly around the handle, place it on the chair. “I don't think you want me in the field, Ethan,” I state softly as, suddenly feeling incredibly weary, I gaze out across the pier and marvel, perhaps even a little longingly, at how happy everyone looks. It's Friday night, they're having a few drinks or a meal with friends or loved ones on the Seattle waterfront, and, really I couldn't feel any more disconnected from them if I tried to put actual effort in to it.

“But...” Frowning, Ethan gets to his feet and, after ferreting around in his pocket for a few seconds, throws down some cash on to the table to pay for both his and Luther's drinks. “I thought we were good.”

“We are,” I reply, lifting my bag on to the table as I gaze somewhat pointedly at the walkway that will take me off the pier and away from what I can only suspect is going to become an increasingly awkward situation. “I... You have no idea how relieved I am to know that Julia's still alive, and I... I feel honoured that you went to the effort to tell me the truth, but... Ethan. Please. You don't want me in the field.”

“But that's just it. I do,” Ethan counters as he pushes his chair under the table and walks around to stand next to me. “I do want you in the field, Brandt,” he adds, placing his hand lightly on my arm. “Everything I saw of you...”

“You don't want me in the field,” I repeat just a tad breathlessly as, jerking my arm away, I pick up my bag and begin to walk away from the table. “I thank you for the offer as, believe it or not, it does actually mean a lot to me, but...”

“There's no time limit on it,” Ethan interjects as, to my horror if not my surprise, he gets in step with me. 

“What?”

“My offer. It's open-ended.”

“Ethan...”

“You don't have to make your mind up tonight.”

“Look. I've made my...”

“You can take as long as you like.”

“Ethan, please... You're not listening to...”

“I'll be still here waiting. Regardless of how long it takes, I'll still be here.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you're a stubborn bastard?” I mutter, punctuating my verbal equivalent of drawing a line in the sand with an exasperated sigh as, still side-by-side, we step off the pier and on to the waterfront. “Maybe you're used to always getting what you want, or... maybe there's some sort of connectivity-slash-comprehension thing going on in your head where you're not understanding what I'm saying, but... Fine. You win. Your offer is open-ended. My response isn't going to change, but, if it helps you out here, I'll always remember that your offer stands. So...” Sighing again, I come to a stop and, positioning myself directly in front of Ethan, look him in the eye. “We're good, yeah?”

“All you had to say was that you'd remember that the offer still stood,” Ethan retorts with a shrug as, looking amused, he steps around me and starts to walk off. “But, yes, we're good. Now...” Glancing over his shoulder, he waits until I – get with the program – catch up to him before adding, “What are you plans for the rest of the night? Given that you've still got your bag, please don't tell me that you're planning on heading straight back to the airport and catching the first flight back to D.C..”

“I...” Getting in step with Ethan, I look down at my bag and shrug. “To be honest with you, I haven't decided,” I reply. “While my original plan had just been to go straight back home, Benji convinced me that it would be fun to stay the night and that, not only could we share a room, but that he'd also take me out on the town and show me around.”

“Uh... And where's Benji now?”

“You would ask that, wouldn't you,” I mutter. “Benji... Well, he dumped me during the cab ride to the pier from the airport. Passing, I think, a comic book store, he suddenly remembered that he had friends in Seattle that he hadn't seen in years and that was pretty much just that. He made two phone calls, scored himself an impromptu party and a bed for the night and... just like that... I was on my own.”

“He... didn't invite you to tag along?”

“Oh. He did. Jane too.”

“Yet...”

“Oddly enough neither of us felt all that compelled to take him up on his kind offer.”

“Funny, that.”

“Yeah. Hilarious.”

“And... Jane?”

“Jane always had her own plans. Although she didn't really want to talk about it, I think she was going to meet up with Hanaway's sister.”

“Oh...”

“Mmm...” I got the impression she was looking forward to that about as much as I was looking forward to seeing Ethan and can only hope that it's gone as – surprisingly – well as my evening has.

“So, you're now left...”

“Wondering just what it is I'm going to do with myself,” I finish with a nod as, reaching a street that will take us away from the waterfront, we both come to an instinctual stop. “While I can think of no reason to stay here, the thought of just lurking around the airport for a flight out doesn't much appeal either, and...”

“You can always stay with me,” Ethan offers, once again positioning himself directly in front of me. “I'd been going to share with Luther but, seeing as his mission got brought forward and he was having to head straight to the airport from the pier, I've now got a twin room with a spare bed that... you're more than welcome to use.”

“I...” Shit. Just where did that come from? I like Ethan. Hell, I like Ethan both a lot... and probably more than I should, and it's because of this that I'm trying to get away from him before I somehow manage to really put my foot in it and ruin what has otherwise been one of the most pleasant evenings I've spent in a long time. “That's very kind of you, but...”

“It's nearby, the room's already paid for, and, seriously, Brandt, the bed's yours if you want it,” Ethan states, giving me a funny look. “Just... Think about it logically. Why pay for another room when all you're going to do is sleep in it?”

“I... Of course it's logical, but...”

“If it helps, I promise, even if it is only because I don't want to risk having my ass handed to me at three in the morning, not to molest you in your sleep...”

“You...” This just keeps on getting – more surreal – better and better, it really does. “What? I...”

“It was a joke, Brandt,” Ethan sighs as, looking a little embarrassed, he glances down at the ground and shrugs. “Obviously an incredibly unfunny one, at that.”

“I...” Reluctantly accepting that I lack the energy to either argue with Ethan or to go to the effort of finding a room for myself, I nod and, without giving myself time to regret my decision, step around him. “Okay. As I've got to sleep somewhere and you've already got a room, lead the way...”

“I knew that overly dominant logic chip of yours would kick in eventually,” Ethan replies with what may well be a relieved looking smile as, once again getting in step with me, he gestures both up the street and to the left. “Come on, then. To reward you for coming to your senses I'll even blow the budget and shout you to a drink from the mini-bar.''

“How... generous... of you.”

“Hey! A roof over your head and a free drink, what more could you possibly want?”

To be left in peace? To not be so pitifully... touched... by Ethan's insistence that I share his room? For him not to have been joking about wanting to... molest me?

But, yeah, other than those minor points, what more could I possibly want indeed.

Not quite knowing how to reply to Ethan without falling prey to accidentally being far more honest than I'd want to be, I just let his question hang in the air and we continue along the street in an almost comfortable silence. I'm worried, because, let's face it, I'm always worried, about what the rest of the night is going to bring, but at the same time I'm... okay... with my decision to take Ethan up on his offer. I mean, I'm going to worry wherever I am, so why not, seeing as who knows when I'll get to see him again, do it in Ethan's company?

“See that hotel just up the street, Br...” Trailing off, Ethan glances at me and, clearly far more at ease with the situation than I am, smiles. “Having been well and truly warned off calling you Billy by Benji, I...”

“He mentioned that, did he?” I interrupt as, quite unable to help myself, I return Ethan's smile with one my own. “I hope though that he put it in... button-pushing... context and didn't just paint me as some sort of... violence for the sake of it... thug.”

“Let's just say that you certainly got your point across and that, no, I don't think he's ever going to make the mistake of calling you that again.”

“Good. But... Does it help my cause any if I mention that Jane basically put me up to it?”

“As I'd have been on your side anyway, it doesn't really make any difference,” Ethan replies. “Now... Knowing that Billy is... uh... well and truly off the books, what do you prefer being called? William?”

“Only two people ever called me William, my grandmother and the Secretary, so... I'm fine with Will,” I state, touched yet again at just how far Ethan seems prepared to go in terms of getting me to relax around him. “But... Whatever. It doesn't matter. If you want to call me Brandt, then...”

“I'm good with Will,” he interrupts, flashing me a happy looking grin as, grabbing my arm, he steers me into the entrance of a rather bland and nondescript looking hotel. “And... We're here! I know it doesn't look like all that much, but the beds are comfortable and it does the job.”

“A bed's a bed, and... it looks fine,” I murmur, following Ethan through the foyer and, as it arrived just as we reached it, into the lift. “Uh... Thanks again for this. I hope I don't repay you by snoring all night.”

“What makes you think that I'm not a snorer myself, huh?” Ethan retorts as he hits the button for the fifth floor. “Look... Seeing as I suspect you're like me and can sleep anywhere so long as you know that you're safe, we'll probably just sleep through the night anyway and will never know if the other actually snores or not. So... Cheer up and stop looking so worried. I've already come to accept that it seems to be your... default position, but it's okay. Seriously, Will. Everything's okay. I have no... dastardly... plans for you, and nor am I going to spend the night trying to brainwash you into joining the team. I invited you to share the room because it made sense to me, and that really is all there is to it.”

“I...” Knowing that I'm not being fair on Ethan and that, if I just continue acting wary around him all the time that he'll need more than the contents of the mini-bar to get through the night, I sigh and, keeping my eyes lowered, follow him out of the elevator and along the corridor to his room. “I... I wasn't always like this,” I murmur as he unlocks the door and gestures me in to the room, “and... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for putting you out, and...”

“The only thing I'm sorry about is that something had to happen to you to make you like this,” Ethan replies as he both shuts and locks the door before making a beeline for the room's small mini-bar above the refrigerator. “Will, you're a good... make that... exceptional agent. We couldn't have taken down Cobalt without you, and I liked working with you. Whatever it is that happened to you, you can't let it...”

“I can,” I whisper, cutting him off mid well-meaning pep talk as I dump my bag on the floor and sink down on the edge of the mattress closest to the window. “It... It's easy for you to say that I should just man up and...”

“I didn't say that at all,” Ethan interrupts as, frowning, he throws a mini bottle of scotch over to me before opening a second one himself and moving over to take a seat on the second bed. “What I said was that you can't let it colour your entire life as... I believe, even if you don't, that you're better than that.”

“Then we'll just have to agree to differ,” I retort, cracking open the lid of my scotch and holding the bottle out towards Ethan in a toast. “Cheers.”

“Mmm... Cheers,” he mutters, holding his bottle up in a quick toast before taking what looks to be a very much needed gulp of scotch. “Will...”

“Cheers,” I repeat, downing the entire contents of my bottle in one long mouthful and, as the scotch burns a fiery path down my throat, mentally crossing my fingers that the injection of alcohol helps me to raise the courage to go through with what it is I now know I have to do. Ethan, if he's going to keep trying to talk me up, deserves to know the truth about why I... am the way I am and I know that the time has come to stop making excuses and just get on with it. “It's a good job these bottles are small or, trust me, you really would know all about my snoring come morning,” I add lightly as, after standing up and throwing the bottle in to the bin, I go over to stand by the window. “But... While it's not much of a victory, you once again win and I... I'll tell you why exactly it is you don't want me out in the field, why... it is that I'm like this...”

Looking, it just as to be said, surprised that this is the route I've suddenly decided to go down, Ethan shakes his head and tries unsuccessfully to catch my gaze. “Will... You don't have to do this. If I sounded like I was either nagging or lecturing you then I'm sorry. You're entitled to your secrets, and...”

“And just look where they've got me,” I mutter, shrugging as I lean my back against the cold glass of the window and, tilting my head back, look up at the ceiling. “I kept my involvement in Croatia from you because I was afraid that you'd hate me, and... No more. If you want the truth you can have it. No... Just no more lies, Ethan. I'd like to be your friend and... because I want you to know what you'd be getting yourself into, I... I want you to know the truth. I've kept it to myself for too long, and...”

“Will... It's not that I don't appreciate the gesture, but you don't have to put yourself through this if you don't...”

“As you're already aware, I was a Ghost,” I state, talking over the top of Ethan in a dull, quiet tone as I dig my hands in to my pockets and close my eyes. “I was part of the Elite Squad from the moment I passed the field exam and that's why you've never seen or heard of me before. It... I'm not saying it's what I'd initially signed up for, but... I was okay with it. In fact, as you'd know yourself, it was an honour being hand-picked by the Secretary for such high stakes missions and, not having anything to compare it to, I was fine with it. I did as I was directed and, okay, while it wasn't without a few close calls, the years, they... they just flew by.”

“Your entire career at IMF, it was spent in the Elite Squad?”

“Until the beginning of the year, yeah... It was all that I knew, all that I was good at.”

“Years, huh?”

“Ten... I was a Ghost for ten years.”

“Then I think it's fair to say you were more than merely... good... at it.”

“It was all that I knew,” I repeat softly. “On my own, having to rely solely on my own wits and skills, it was what I'd been trained to do and I... I did it. It... It was my life.”

“Then...”

“Then I was captured,” I whisper as, opening my eyes, I turn around and stare, without really seeing anything, out the window. “The mission was a long one. I'd already been in deep cover for nine months and there were signs that the pay off was likely to be only one or two months away, when... I... My cover was blown and I was captured...”

“Will... You don't have to...”

“I do. Now that I've started, I... I have to go through with it,” I murmur, ignoring the tell-tale sounds of Ethan, no doubt so that he can hear me better, moving on to the second bed. “It... Let's face it, it's not as though... uh... finally talking about it is going to change anything, or.. or make it any worse...”

“Maybe not, but you don't have...”

“Time not holding any meaning for me, I didn't know it at the time, but they... they held me for just over five weeks,” I continue in a voice barely above that of a whisper as, knowing that I have to, I just seize the proverbial bull by the horns and push on. “They also, and I suppose this goes without saying, tortured me. For five weeks I was held captive and tortured, and...” My breath catching in my throat, I shake my head and only just resist the urge to whimper as, just as should been expected, the memories threaten to get the better of me. “I... That is... While I understood the torture, what I couldn't understand was why they never asked me any questions. They just... beat, and burnt, and... cut me like it was some sort of chore that they had to do, but... But they never asked me anything. Some days they didn't even speak...” 

“That... That's...”

“Unusual?”

“I was going to go with... whack... myself, but, yeah, unusual will do.”

“That's what I thought, then...”

“Then...?”

“Then...” Taking a deep breath, I spin around and, grimacing, lock my gaze on a random point on the opposite wall. “Then it was made to make... uh... perfect... sense.”

“How? I...”

“Kevin Ericsson,” I state as just saying the bastard's name causes goosebumps to break out across my skin.

“Ericsson? That name rings a...”

“He was my handler,” I whisper. “He'd been my handler for the past five years and, as you'd know, he was my only contact back at HQ, he... He was my safety-net...”

“And...”

“And he sold me out...”

“Will...”

“The bastard sold me out because he was in bed with the fucking cartel we were supposed to be working together to bring down!” I exclaim, the agitation I'm feeling coming through loud and clear in my voice as, for the first time since I started to talk, I lower my head and catch Ethan's concerned gaze as he stares, unblinking, over at me. “He... He sold me out to line his own pocket and... and the reason I know this is because he made a fucking point of coming in to my cell and telling me personally! Not... Not only that, but he... he...”

“Hey, come on, Will,” Ethan murmurs as he gets to his feet and walks over to join me by the window. “It's okay. You don't have...”

“Do you want to know why I was tortured for five weeks?” I query, keeping a wary eye on Ethan as, suddenly getting the feeling that he may want to, God forbid, try to comfort me or something, I take a step back from him. “Ericsson, again, he made a very definite point of explaining to me that... that it was for... 'added realism'. That... when my corpse was found the coroner would be able to make a time-line of my torture by the age of my wounds! Fuck! Can you... Can you even believe it? The only reason they'd been going through the motions of torturing me was so that my corpse would be littered with... believable... scars! I... I'd already seen a lot by that time, but that... that took the fucking cake!”

“I...” Shaking his head, Ethan reaches his hand out but stops short of actually touching me. “I don't know what to say other than I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you were betrayed by a psychopathic asshole, and...”

“I was in a bad way by the time he arrived to bring me up to speed on what exactly was going on,” I interrupt, glaring at Ethan's hand as, just wanting this over and done with, I take another step back. “I could barely stand unaided and everything, and I really do mean everything, hurt, but I... To this day I can't even really explain what happened, but I was so... furious... at Ericsson that, from out of nowhere, I found the strength to go him and... somehow... Again, I don't even know how, but I... I somehow managed to both kill him and use his phone to call for help before the alarm was raised and I was pulled off him and thrown into another cell.”

“And who says stories involving gratuitous torture can't have a happy ending,” Ethan mutters drily as, clearly not taking the hint that I'm far from being in a touchy-feely sort of mood, he shifts closer and wafts his hand over my shoulder. “I mean, I'm taking it, yeah, that that was the end?”

“More or less,” I murmur with a shrug. “The cavalry came in to save the day just in the nick of time and I spent the next six weeks in the infirmary. I then, when the Secretary refused to accept my letter of resignation, spent another four weeks training to lead a... gentle, walk in the park... protection detail in Croatia, and...” Sighing, I take the last step back open to me and press my back against the wall. “There, in a nutshell, is why you don't want me out in the field.”

“None of it was your fault, Will,” Ethan replies soothingly. “Ericsson sold you out, and Croatia was...”

“You just don't get it, do you?” I interject, watching Ethan closely as, still making a very determined effort to remain oblivious to what my body language just has to be telling him, he shifts closer. “It... It's all about trust with me. I... Thanks to Ericsson, I don't trust others and, regardless of what I now know to be the truth, thanks to Croatia I can't even trust myself! And... Being out in the field again, it... it too has to be all about trust! I have to be able to trust you, you have to be able to trust me, and... uh... how can you trust me when I can't even trust myself? I... I'm a liability, Ethan, a... fuck-up just waiting to happen, and you... You don't want to take the risk. I'm just not worth it...”

“Actually, I think you're more than worth it,” Ethan whispers as he quickly closes the small distance that separates us and, before I have time to comprehend what it is he's so very obviously planning to do, let alone squirm away, wraps his arms around me. “You've had a hard time, Will,” he continues, pulling me against him and enveloping me in an embrace that's as strong and warm – and surprising – as it is comforting, “but, and you've got to believe me here, you're far better than you've convinced yourself that you are. You're not to blame for any...”

“I'm a liability,” I repeat dejectedly as, quite literally not knowing what else to do, I slump against Ethan and, after only a second or so of hesitation, bringing my hands up and resting them on his chest. “Can't you see? You don't, you... can't want me...”

“What I see, Will, is a brilliant agent who, unfortunately, was horribly let down by someone he trusted,” he murmurs thickly, his breath warm against my ear as, really giving up now, I rest my head on his shoulder. “I don't, and, again, you've got to believe me here, see what... you... see at all. You're not a liability, and nothing you've just said has changed my opinion about wanting to work with you.”

“But...”

“Uh! You've had your say, now let me have mine,” Ethan states, calmly rubbing circles into my back with the heel of his palm. “Everything you've just told me? It explains a lot.”

“Like, why, for example, the only reason I still have a job is because the Secretary blindly stood by me,” I mumble. “From... Ghost, to leading a protection detail, to... being a desk jockey in six short months, that... That's me. I... He... He should have just let me...”

“The only reason the Secretary would have stood... blindly... by you was because he knew there was a good reason to. Now...” Pausing, he hugs me just that little bit tighter and, as I slide my arms around his waist and hug him back, plants a fleeting kiss on the top of my head. “Listen to me, Will. I get it. I do. Not only were you let down, but you're still, through self-doubt and distrust, paying the price for it. But... You're better than this and, damn it, I'm going to do whatever it takes to get it through to you...”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Whatever it takes.

Perhaps I'm easy.

Maybe all it takes for there to be a light to start shining at the end of the very long, and very dark tunnel is for someone to hug me and tell me that it's okay, that...

… I'm okay.

And, what's more, maybe I am.

Maybe I am... okay... after all.

I'm still here, and somehow, despite the truth, the truth that I stupidly fought so hard to keep to myself, now being out there, I'm...

… Wanted.

Ethan wants me on his team and, as he made a point of repeating over and over again throughout the night, both Jane and Benji want to work with me too. They don't care that I've skirted around the truth and gone out of my way to keep them all at arms length and, essentially, done everything in my power to hide my... true... self from them. All they see when they look at me is a more than capable agent that they've already successfully completed a mission with and, thanks to the time we've spent together over the past six weeks at HQ, in the case of Jane and Benji, someone they already consider a friend. I've done nothing, as I tried – with all the dedication and fervour of a backwater preacher – to impress on Ethan as we talked, argued, and, in my case, pleaded, well in to the night, to deserve their trust, but, not being a complete martyr after all, I'm thankful for it. I'm thankful for their presence in my life and, even more so than I am to the others for making a point of searching me out at HQ, I'm thankful to Ethan for possessing the unerring ability to always know just what it is he needs to both say and do to get through to me.

He could have given up last night.

He... should... have given up. 

Anyone else in their right mind would have taken both my... info dump... and stubborn refusal to listen to a point of view that wasn't my own and just written me off as not worth the effort. 

Not Ethan though. No. He just, patiently and without even being reduced to sounding as though he was nagging, kept at me. He listened to me, accepted that there actually was a fairly logical explanation as to just why it was I was the way that I am, and, instead of coming to his senses and simply calling it quits for the night and going to bed, then took the time to calmly dissect every argument I threw at him about why it was in everyone's best interests to keep me out of the field.

I thought, at first, that he just didn't get it and that I was only wasting my breath by trying to make him see me as the... liability... I knew I was. It really was like he simply couldn't compute the concept of not getting something he'd decided that he wanted and that my own opinions, or even the safety of his team, just didn't even come in to it.

Ethan didn't get it, and neither did I.

It just boggled my mind that he couldn't seem to comprehend what I was telling him. What Ericsson did had destroyed my ability to trust in others, and, by both misreading the signs and not having enough confidence in my gut feeling to have spoken up, what happened in Croatia had destroyed by ability to trust in myself.

So, you know, what possible use could I be to others?

In desperation I even turned to examples that, having been there himself, I thought he'd surely be able to understand.

I told him how having to trust in Benji's promise to catch me in Mumbai had very nearly broken my brain and that, as the entire mission hinged on... my leap of faith, if I'd given in to my panic and... not... jumped, things would have gone even more completely to shit than they actually did. I tried to get it through to him that I hadn't wanted to jump, that I really, really hadn't wanted to do it at all and how, not because it was such an incredibly long way down, but because I had to put my trust in Benji being able to stop my free fall, I thought my heart was actually going to stop dead when I leant out over the drop.

Ethan's response to this, my last ditch attempt to smack him in the face with an unmistakeable fact of life, however, was nothing short of – hitting a home run – a thing of simplistic beauty.

“Yet you still jumped.”

That's all he said.

“Yet you still jumped.”

And...

… He was right.

I jumped.

I'd have given just about anything to not to have had to do it, but...

… I did it.

I put my trust in Benji – as opposed to his Goddamn magnets – and I jumped. 

I trusted Benji to catch me, and he did.

It was at this point that, realising – if not actually going so far as to mentally pat himself on the back for having finally got something through to me – that I'd been struck dumb by his use of logic, Ethan suggested that, for the time being at least, we just agree to differ and get some sleep.

He could have kept at me, could have honed in on the moment of both realisation and clarity that he'd just managed to install in me and gone in for the kill, but, no. Ethan's far more clever than that. Already having some sort of lock on how my mind works, he left me to work my own way through what had just happened. Although it could be argued that it, fixating on things in my own head and refusing to believe that anyone could possibly see anything in me, was what had got me in to the closed-off mess that I was in, he knew, don't ask me how but he just knew, that it was something I had to see through on my own.

I jumped... and survived.

I found myself back in the field again and not only successfully played my part, but I also... survived.

I, even it wasn't through any actual effort on my part, let people into my life and, you guessed it... survived.

I...

… Stopped hiding behind a self-protective façade, laid myself bare, and...

Survived.

When sleep finally came to claim me I felt more at peace than I had for a long time and, for the first time in too long, I knew what it was I had to do. What, far more to the point, I actually... wanted... to do.

I wanted to accept Ethan's offer of joining his team, and I wanted to remain with the small group of people I already knew I was incredibly lucky to be able to call my friends. Not because I felt as though I had to pay them back for all of the time, patience and effort they'd put in to trying to get through to me, but because I couldn't think of anything that I'd like to do more.

I'm not saying that over six months of internal damage has been undone overnight as of course it hasn't. Ethan may be good, and I know I owe him most of the credit for having gotten me this far, but he's not... that... good.

I still doubt myself.

Of course I do.

Just because I've decided that I want it doesn't mean that things will actually work out. Maybe the others will all realise that they've made a mistake in believing in me. What if I stuff something up?

I'm only human though, just one man, and what I do know, what I'm now absolutely confident of, is this...

If I concentrate, and give it everything that I've got, I can do it.

I can...

… Still do it.

“Changed your mind yet?” Ethan queries, looking over at me as he zips his bag shut and lifts it up from the bed.

“Come to my senses, you mean?” I reply as, picking my own bag up, I glance, out of sheer habit, around the room to make sure that we haven't left anything behind.

“Will...” Frowning, Ethan drops his bag back down on to the mattress and walks over to me. “Nothing's changed, you know. The choice, just as it's always been, is down to you and you alone,” he, not for the first time this morning, murmurs. “You... don't have to do this.”

Smiling, I rest my hand on Ethan's shoulder and give it a quick squeeze before walking around him and retrieving his bag. “Like I told you when the message came through that the Syndicate was requiring your attention earlier than expected, I'm in,” I respond, handing him his bag as he walks over to take it from me. “It... No one's forcing me, and, after careful consideration, it's what I want, it... It's what I really want.”

“In that case, as I know when to take my victories and run with them...” Walking over to the door, Ethan opens it and, with a slight bow, gestures me through it. “Let's do this, yeah...”

Just...

I couldn't have put it better myself.

Let's do this.

~ end ~


End file.
